


Feels like Flying: A Modern AU of Threshold

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Americans can be tightasses so go with that, And feels, Episode: s02e15 Threshold, Eventual Romance, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 22:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19858705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: Tom Paris, VP of Labor Relations, thinks he can earn Delta Air Lines a spot on the prestigious Airline Excellence Awards listing. He just needs to convince CEO Kathryn Janeway it’s a good idea despite some possible … unforeseen consequences.





	Feels like Flying: A Modern AU of Threshold

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to devovere for beta wisdom. A warp 10 flight is so much better with company.

I’d been the CEO at Delta Air Lines for a year and a half when Tom Paris, my Vice President of Labor Relations, presented me with a plan so ridiculous, I ordered a medical evaluation for him. 

“The Airline Excellence Awards?” I said, skimming his proposal on my iPad. My hair was up in a bun, as usual, and one of the bobby pins was poking me. Some form of headache was normal in this job, though, so I ignored it.

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “I think we can do it.”

I was at my desk and Tom was in one of the guest chairs. Most people sat up straight and eyed the door, but Tom leaned back like he would stay all day if I let him. Not surprising. His father had been my mentor and my soft spot for Tom was somewhat legendary. I’d even bailed him out of jail when he got one too many DUIs. But Tom had been sober for 18 months and eager to prove himself worthy of my trust.

That didn’t make his idea any more sensible, though.

“You do realize no airline based in the Americas makes it on this list, right?” I pinched the bridge of my nose — an old habit from my time as a flight attendant when I needed to calm myself before dealing with angry customers. “Hell, no airline based in Europe makes this list. It’s mostly Asia-Pacific and we can’t compete with their level of amenities.”

"Maybe not now, but I want to run some test simulations." Tom always wanted to run test simulations. "I could use a cross-functional team with a few other vice presidents. To start, I'd want Harry Kim in Global Operations, Lana Torres in Maintenance and Engineering, and Neil Lixx in Food and Beverage."

“Food and Beverage?” I echoed. “Now that’s a neglected area.”

“Exactly!” Tom was practically levitating. The man had logged I-don’t-know-how-many hours in the actual sky, but his on-the-ground enthusiasm was just as inspiring. “If we can get our on-time numbers up, our maintenance incidents down, and our meal service improved all around, I think we have a shot at this thing. Harry, Lana, and Neil know their stuff and I’ll lead the labor side. You know the pilots listen to me, and everyone from the ticket agents to the flight attendants will fall in line behind them to deliver top-tier results. What do you think, Kathryn? Can I at least get you a plan from the entire team?”

I gave him a quick nod. “Do it.”

Four weeks later, Tom emailed me the team’s concepts. I called an executive meeting in the small conference room, the one with the oval table and great view of the Atlanta airport runways.

“When you came to me a month ago and said you had a way to get Delta into the Airline Excellence Awards, I thought it was more of a fantasy than reality,” I confessed. “But you’ve delivered an economically viable plan with synergies across departments.”

Lana said she was eager to set the plan in motion. Tom suggested we deploy route by route, starting with the major hubs and spreading to the entire flight map, effectively upgrading everywhere at once very quickly. My VP of Customer Relations voiced some concern, but I don’t worry too much about Chuck O’Tay’s tentativeness to try new things. If it were up to him, we’d still be flying turboprops and landing in grassy fields.

Then Tom’s medical report came back. 

I got the corporate physician’s phone call after hours, so I texted Tom and asked if we could meet at his apartment. I parked my BMW 740i next to Tom’s Lincoln Navigator.

There were a few minutes of awkwardness. I was still in my business clothes — red blouse, black pencil skirt, black heels — and Tom wore a blue bathrobe over who-knows-what. We sat in chairs in his living room.

“I've heard from the corporate physician,” I told Tom, “and it's his opinion that we let Harry lead the Airline Excellence Awards initiative. Your EKG wasn’t great. You’re at risk for a heart attack.”

We’d been to enough corporate retreats for me to know Tom’s foods of choice: pizza, grilled cheese sandwiches, T-bone steaks — anything with cholesterol. 

“How big a chance for a heart attack are we talking about over and above baseline for the normal population?” he asked.

I answered somewhat stiffly, “Two percent.”

“Two percent?” he scoffed. “I'll take that chance.”

Having worked for Owen Paris, Tom’s father, I knew Tom was driven — to success and to excess. Owen was CEO of United Airlines when I switched to the corporate side from cabin crew. Owen kept the quarterly numbers scrolling across a television mounted on his office wall … and a bottle of scotch in a drawer in his desk. I’d seen him drain all 750 mls in a day. When Owen drank, he yelled. I admired the hell out of the man’s business acumen, but it was hard enough to share the executive suite with his temper; I couldn’t imagine his home life. That’s why I tapped Tom for the VP job with me. I knew he’d understand the industry he’d been born into and, if he could just stay off the bottle, that Paris charisma worked wonders.

So it put an ache in my belly to clip his wings, even if it was for good reason.

“It’s hard to explain,” Tom said, “but this is my fight.”

“Your fight?” I frowned. I hadn’t known this was a battle.

Tom stood. “When I was a boy, my father used to tell me that I was special, that one day I'd do something significant. That was before he started drinking, so I knew he meant it. My teachers at school, all the kids, everyone used to say, it, too: ‘Tom Paris is going to do something important when he grows up.’ I have to fight to prove myself, to show I’m not just Owen Paris’ son. I’m a worthy aviation executive in my own right.”

“This isn't about personal redemption.” I focused on Tom’s left ear so I wouldn’t see his face. “We're talking about medical risk. Your life could be in danger, and we need you.”

I didn’t let myself say, _I need you_. 

No one makes it to the corner office without learning a thing or two about hiding emotion. As a woman in the male-dominated airline business, I’d become a master at it. Tom was eight years younger than I was, my direct report, and my mentor’s son. He also had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, a chest that screamed to be stroked, and the best ass this side of the International Date Line. If he were a conference call on quarterly earnings, I’d tune in for the real-time webstream and the on-demand audio. Naked.

And he was arguing with me.

“Kathryn, this is the first time in years I feel I have a life to risk,” he said. “I’ve been sober and you know my plan is good. Please, let me be the one to carry it out.”

I felt my resolve crumbling. “You're sure about this?”

“I've never been so sure about anything.” His fervor was practically religious. “Please. Please let me bring an Airline Excellence Awards listing home to Delta. Just think what it could do for employee morale, for seat bookings, for the stock price.”

I folded like a tray table.

“I’ll need you to sign a waiver,” I said, “holding Delta Air Lines Inc. and all its business units at zero liability for any harm that may come to you.”

“I’ll sign anything you want,” he pledged. 

I bit back the reply, _How about a pre-nup?_ and instead said, “I’ll contact Legal tonight and ensure the waiver is emailed to you first thing in the morning.”

I stood to leave, but Tom leaned over and took my hand in his. My arm tingled, my stomach lurched, and my eyebrows shot up. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”

I patted his hand with my free one. Best to make this jocular. “I know, Tom. But if you’re going to play _Jerry Maguire_ and _Top Gun_ at the same time, just make sure you’re Tom Cruise in both. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and saluted. 

I couldn’t help but laugh with him.

***

A few weeks later, Tom started with the Atlanta hub. When that went well, he expanded to Boston, then Detroit, and Los Angeles. Lana’s engineers were granted unprecedented autonomy to report and fix concerns within Federal Aviation Administration guidelines, and Neil’s food service operation gained new subcontractors so we could offer more choice within a variety of dietary categories. The profit margins were huge and the major supplier, Lee-Ola Routes, saw its own stock rise. If the Securities and Exchange Commission allowed it, I would have immediately invested in the corporation myself. Harry kept the roll-out consistent and Tom led and tracked effectiveness of employee training. While not directly involved in the project, Chuck oversaw metrics related to customer satisfaction. 

“You know,” Chuck said over a working lunch in my office, “maybe this has been a good idea after all. Our upgrades are becoming legendary among my people.”

“Your people?” I looked up from my computer screen.

“SkyMiles frequent flyer club members.” He grinned. “Those are my people.”

I rolled my eyes.

***

It was late February when Tom left to oversee program implementation in Minneapolis/St. Paul. That alone would have been a good reason to save a snow-prone hub for later. But Tom insisted he was approaching the threshold of system-wide, trickle-down effectiveness. 

“You know trickle-down economics is a myth brought to you by the president that broke the air traffic controller’s union, right?” I spoke into my iPhone. I was in my office and Tom was boarding his flight to Minnesota. I heard him snicker. 

“Would you prefer the peanut farmer who deregulated the entire industry?” he teased.

“Let’s both cut the politics,” I ordered. “Let me know when you land.”

A few hours later Tom sent me the airplane emoji with a thumbs-up. I told myself I like all my employees to tell me they’re okay. I may not distinctly ask them, but safety reporting is a critical component to success.

After that, no one heard from Tom for two days. 

I put Harry in charge of implementation for the New York City airports and told Lana to lead rollout in Salt Lake and Seattle/Tacoma. Chuck came into my office as I stood behind my desk disconnecting cords from my laptop.

“Who’s going to do Minneapolis/St. Paul?” he asked.

“I will.” I picked up my phone and showed him my boarding pass. “See you in a few days.”

“Paris probably just fell off the wagon,” Chuck said. “You don’t need to go out there just to see him drunk and delusional.”

My hands went to my hips. “Do you have documentation to support that accusation?” 

Chuck was silent.

“Then I’ll trust you to walk the aisles here, because I’m going to Minnesota.” 

My administrative assistant, Naomi, called ahead to check local medical centers as well as the hotel where Tom was supposed to stay. No one had any record of his arrival. There were a few John Does at the hospitals, but HIPPA regulations blocked Naomi from getting any information over the phone. Fortunately, the first hospital I tried in person, Cochrane Memorial, was pay dirt. 

I didn’t catch the doctor’s name, but he said a Lyft driver brought Tom in with no identification. I found it hard to believe Tom traveled without ID, but I could believe it had been lost or stolen. Tom had been rushed to surgery, spent a day in the ICU, then was moved to his own room in the cardiac wing. He hadn’t woken up at all, which the doctor said was unusual.

“Mr. Paris — it’s nice not to have to call him John Doe anymore — had an ST segment elevation myocardial infarction,” the doctor said, his bald head bent over Tom’s chart.

Tom was pale and hooked up to monitors that beeped in an unsettling rhythm. I can understand any spreadsheet, but I couldn't make heads or tails of Tom’s cardiac readout. The room was cramped and there was one skinny window for natural light. 

“What does that mean, doctor?” I held onto the handle of my rolling travel bag. I told myself it was normal to feel a bit off balance after flying. Never mind that I'd been on hundreds of flights and never had a problem with my equilibrium.

“It means Mr. Paris had a classic heart attack." The doctor motioned toward one of the monitors as if I could comprehend the graph on the screen. "The blockage is clear thanks to my insertion of a coronary artery stent via thigh catheter. Early tests project a positive prognosis for heart muscle recovery, but I can't rule out impact to Mr. Paris' mental faculties until he regains consciousness."

I glanced at Tom again. He was eerily still. “I'll wait here until he wakes up." 

There was a small table and chair wedged into a corner of the room, and I could use the hospital WiFi. I’d noticed a coffee machine at the nurses’ station, and the trainings I was scheduled to lead didn’t start until the next morning.

“I’ll be sure to fly Delta in the future,” the doctor said. “If you care about your customers the way you care about your employees, I couldn’t imagine myself on a better airline.”

I thanked him and, once he left, hunted for an electrical outlet for my laptop charger. I handled emails, verified accounting numbers, and read the latest reports from the Transportation Security and Federal Aviation administrations. In between, I peeked at Tom. Nurses came and went and I asked one of them, a blonde with a pixie haircut, if she thought Tom could hear us. She said it was worth a try, so after she left I went over to him and whispered, “Wake up, Tom.” His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

When the temptation to check WebMD became too distracting, I stepped away from my laptop. There was no point in running that search.

I downed two coffees at the nurses’ station and had just walked back into Tom’s room with a third cup when his monitors began baring a horrible, loud, insistent sound. Tom moaned and a nurse pushed me out of the way to stick a bedpan under his mouth. Tom vomited and the nurse yelled for me to dispose of my coffee outside of the room. She said the smell might have triggered Tom’s gag reflex and now his electrolytes could become imbalanced.

I ran.

When I got back, the doctor was increasing the oxygen flow into the plastic tube under Tom’s nose.

“You're losing me, aren't you?” Tom groaned. “I'm going to die.”

I was in the doorway. The doctor and the pixie-haired nurse were between Tom and me. The doctor ordered intervention after intervention. I’m used to being the most powerful person in the room, not the least, and I hugged myself in frustration and — let’s face it — fear. 

“Big funeral with lots of pretty girls all crying,” Tom mumbled. “Except the only pretty girl I care about is the one I can’t have. Is your boss pretty, doc?”

The doctor said something about his boss being a grumpy old man named Lewis Zimmerman, but I was frozen. Was Tom saying he thought I was pretty, that he cared about me? Also, was I a terrible person to be thinking about this when he could die?

“Pepperoni!” Tom sputtered. “God, I'd love a pepperoni pizza with Kalamata olives right now. I'm starving!”

“Does he usually go from vomiting to hunger?” the doctor asked me over his shoulder. 

“I have no idea,” I shouted over the medical equipment beeps and alarms.

The alarms fell silent. 

_He’s dead_ , I thought. _He’s dead and I never told him how I feel about him. I could have checked with Legal, I could have changed the org chart, I could have —_

“Now that’s a remarkable recovery,” the doctor said. 

“What?” I pulled myself hand-over-hand along the wall to collapse into the chair I’d been working in. The glow from my laptop screen hurt my eyes, and I pushed the lid closed. “Recovery?”

“His heart rate is approaching normal. If I had to guess, I’d say oxytocin hormones affected neurotransmitters in his brain.” The doctor must have seen my confusion because he added, “In layman's terms, the sound of your voice calmed him and, with medical interventions already in place, Mr. Paris simply went back to sleep.”

I’ve made my living sizing up situations to determine the best possible business decision. If that means squeezing in more seats or reducing flight frequency, that’s what I'll do. While the romance of what the doctor suggested certainly had some appeal, I found it difficult to believe in the practical sense and I told him so. 

“Fine,” he sniffed. “Don’t believe the cardiologist when it comes to matters of the heart. I have other patients to attend to, anyway.”

He strode out of the room and I looked at Tom again. His color seemed better and the barest hint of a smile lingered on his lips.

My heart beat in sync with the audio from his cardiac monitor. 

***

One of the nice things about being CEO is when you talk, people listen. The training that was supposed to take two days was completed in one morning and I went straight from airport meeting rooms to the hospital. Tom was propped in his bed, crisscrossed by wires and tubes. 

“Pretty disgusting, huh?” he greeted me.

“You've looked better.” I pulled off my coat and dumped it on the chair. “How do you feel?”

“Like a lab experiment gone wrong.” He grabbed a handful of his medical accessories and held them up. “But it means a lot that you’re here.”

“We're all concerned about you, Tom,” I said, deflecting the individual compliment. “Lana, Harry, Neil, Chuck — everyone sends best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Tom grinned, but then he began to cough and gag so violently I had a passing worry he would retch out his own tongue. I ran for the door to get a nurse, but Tom drank from a water bottle on his tray and called after me.

“Wait, Kathryn, I'm sorry.” His voice had a hint of desperation. “Please come back.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” I turned and approached his bed again. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Tom was discharged that afternoon. I felt it was too soon, but the doctor was adamant about recovery outside the hospital. Tom couldn’t travel yet, so I switched my hotel room to a two-bedroom suite with a living area. I helped Tom from my rental car to his bed and I read his paperwork. 

“You have to walk around the suite a few times a day,” I told him, “and you’ll be cleaning the catheter insertion site in your thigh at least once every 24 hours. It says not to worry if it’s badly bruised. You have to wear loose clothing and only take showers, no baths. No sports for five days after the procedure and it specifically says you can’t use a lawn mower for 48 hours.” I looked out the window at the snowy landscape and shrugged. “No work for a week or two depending on how you feel but it says you can drive already, which doesn’t seem like a good idea so we’ll ignore that.”

Tom’s color wasn’t bad, but he had bruises on his arm from his IV and his whole body sagged in exhaustion. I’d put pillows behind his back to brace him against his headboard, allowing his injured thigh to relax on the bed. Since his carry-on hadn't been found, Tom wore the same button-down shirt he’d traveled in from Atlanta to Minneapolis/St. Paul, even though the buttons didn’t close anymore. The doctor had ripped the shirt open when he used a defibrillator to shock Tom’s heart into beating again.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.

“I feel like I’ve kidnapped you,” he said. “You run a multi-billion dollar company and here you are playing nurse. It’s not right.”

I crossed my arms. “Did you track me down a dark corridor and attack me? Did you carry me, unconscious, into some sort of getaway vehicle? Did you leave me no ability to contact anyone to tell them I’m okay?” 

Tom shook his head. 

“Then don’t worry about it.” I smiled. “I would do this for any of my direct reports.”

There was a knock at the door. I left to get it and returned with a big, cardboard box.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“Well,” I ripped off the Amazon Prime Now tape, “you don’t have any clothes and I mostly brought business attire. I ordered some things online.”

I pulled a plastic bag from the box, removed the long-sleeved shirt inside, and handed it to Tom. 

“Lacoste?" he chortled. "These lizard shirts are so preppy.”

“They aren’t lizards,” I sniffed. “The logo is a crocodile and if you don't want it you can order yourself whatever you like.”

“No, no, no. I love it,” he said. “Because it’s from you.”

***

After he napped and then showered with me listening on the other side of the bathroom door in case he needed anything, Tom ate some decent food from room service and asked me the question I’d been dreading. 

“Did you tell my dad what happened?”

Tom was on the sofa in front of the living area television. I was at the desk clicking through some mid-quarter numbers on my laptop. It was late, and the glow from our screens was the only light in the room. We both had on sweatpants and our Lacoste shirts, which, thanks to Tom, I could only think of as “lizard shirts.” 

“Yes,” I said. “I told him.”

Tom muted the television. “Did he care?”

I logged off and sat next to Tom on the sofa, careful not to jostle him.

“Tom, your father is the most functional alcoholic I’ve ever seen. There were days he was sauced out of his mind and would hop on a call with financial analysts and hit every number from memory. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I learned a lot from him about separating business from personal concerns.”

A black-and-white program on the television sent waves of light across the side of Tom’s face. His blue eyes were unevenly lit, yet equally, achingly sad. “He didn’t care.”

I wanted to comfort Tom with a touch to his knee, his shoulder, his forearm, something. But I kept my hands in my lap. “He cares in his way. He said he’s glad I’m here with you. He said your mother will call when she gets home from her trip to Marseilles. He said he would tell your sisters.”

“Why do you protect him?” The television darkened, pitching Tom into shadow. “Everyone knows he tricked you into that corporate espionage when you first joined his c-suite.”

“That thing with the Kardashians and the brand identity guidelines?” My arms crossed. “That was a long time ago.”

“But you never implicated him, not even to the Federal Trade Commission investigator.”

I don’t usually need much sleep to get by, but a wave of fatigue hit me with a stretch and a yawn. Maybe it was the low light from the television. The screen had shifted and the hero of the show was running through a network of caves, a silvery-grey rocket pack strapped to his back. I started pulling out my bobby pins and hair tie.

“I saw you at the hearings, you know,” I told Tom, my fingers rubbing the back of my head. “You were an intern, I think, and you had a brown leather messenger bag that you carried everywhere.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, because there was weed in it.” I sat straight up, my hair cascading over my shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I haven’t gone near the stuff in fifteen years.”

“My God,” I said. “I’ve known you for fifteen years.” I dumped the bobby pins and hair tie onto the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa again. “That’s crazy.”

“Well, we’ve really only gotten to know each other since you bailed me out on that DUI charge and hired me at Delta.” Tom looked down at the sofa, then at me again. The commercial on the television was in color, and Tom’s face was illuminated in shades of red from the truck being advertised. “I know I’ve thanked you, but I never really asked you why. Was it loyalty to my father? I mean, you’d just left United and he wasn’t exactly happy about that, but …”

“You just needed someone to believe in you, Tom,” I said. “I knew the DUI might worry some people and I didn’t want that to kill your career. Now you’ve got a solid name for yourself in the industry and everything is in place for the Airline Excellence Awards. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get tapped to lead one of the other carriers — JetBlue, American, Southwest. You’d be great.”

“There’s just one problem with that plan.” Tom picked up one of my bobby pins and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled it back and forth. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I like working with you at Delta. If you went somewhere else, I’d want to go with you, even back to United with my father.”

I watched my bobby pin move between Tom’s fingers, still red from the light of the television.

I was well aware of Delta Air Lines’ sexual harassment policies and rules, particularly for a direct report.

But I also kept thinking about my mental state when I thought Tom had died … and when he might have said I was pretty. 

Tom’s hospital discharge paperwork said he could have sex a week after his procedure. I’d skipped that part when reading the information out loud. First, it seemed as ridiculous as his immediate permission to drive. Second, mentioning the seemingly-immaterial topic could be problematic on professional and personal levels. Third, that timing coincided with our last day in Minneapolis before heading back to Atlanta — and that was something I wasn’t ready to delve into quite yet. 

“Why did you stop wearing your engagement ring?”

My eyes had drifted closed but they snapped open again at Tom’s question. “I beg your pardon?”

His face was placid, as if we were discussing the weather. Well, the weather is of utmost importance to airline executives, but what discussing the weather would mean for most people.

“When you bailed me out,” he said, “just before you started the job at Delta, I remember seeing an engagement ring on your finger. When you welcomed me to Delta on my first day, it was gone. What happened?”

I closed my eyes again. It wasn’t out of fatigue, though. I was embarrassed. “He, um, he didn’t want me to take the CEO position. He felt it wasn’t conducive to a family life. I chose my career over his emotional blackmail.”

Tom’s voice was warm and reassuring. “I’m glad you did.”

I told Tom it was late and I needed to go to sleep. I turned on the lights and he turned off the television. Tom was still a little unsteady on his feet, so I helped him to his bed, then went to my side of the suite and took a bath. Holding my phone over the edge of the tub, I googled each and every pharmaceutical Tom had been given in the hospital and as part of his discharge. Not one mentioned any kind of side effect related to cognitive processing or judgment. That meant whatever topics Tom chose to discuss reflected his true thoughts.

The breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding came out in a shaky exhale. 

***

The ding announcing Chuck’s text woke me the next morning. I pulled my phone from the nightstand and squinted in its light. _I’ve got SkyMiles members sending in reviews for the award. Harry says response is good for new seating offerings. Lana and Neil also say all is well. Anything else we should do?_

 _Nope_ , I typed. _Steady as she goes — and thanks. I’ll email you if anything comes up. I expect to be here for three more days, then home._

Chuck’s reply came right back, _If I don’t see you in three days, I’ll send a search party._

I sent him back the eyeroll emoji and the thumbs-up emoji. Chuck is a great executive, just a touch overprotective. 

Though I prefer to have a cup of coffee before I do anything else in the morning, I brushed my teeth, got dressed in another long-sleeved “lizard shirt” — I’d ordered them in a few colors since I knew they would be comfortable — and put on makeup. I sucked in my cheeks for blush and steadied my elbow on the vanity for eyeliner. I probably wouldn’t leave the building, but I still could look nice. I hadn’t shared business travel rooms since my flight attendant days, and those cramped crash pads certainly hadn’t been suites. My bobby pins and hair tie were in the living area, so I brushed my hair and figured that was good enough. I’d been so busy since taking the CEO job that I was overdue for a cut. I typed in a phone reminder to schedule one when I got back to Atlanta.

Tom wasn’t in the living area, so I knocked on his door. He said I could come in. He was dressed in another “lizard shirt” and a pair of khakis I'd ordered him. I was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting in his chair, not the bed.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he grinned. “Is this from you? It was delivered about an hour ago.” He held up an iPhone. 

I nodded. “I know you lost yours, but I figured you could get your contacts from the cloud and feel a little more connected.”

Tom tapped his phone. My phone was in my hand and it dinged with an incoming iMessage. _Thank you. You’re very thoughtful._

I replied with the smiley-face-with-sunglasses-on emoji. 

“Room service for breakfast or are you up to the hotel restaurant?” I asked. 

“Room service, if that’s okay.” Tom pushed off his chair. “I want to talk with you.”

I refused to allow butterflies in my stomach before coffee. We went to the living area for menus and I called for our meals. Ten minutes, the person pledged. I hung up, figuring it would be fifteen.

“I read an article from the American Heart Association on emotions after a heart attack.” Tom was settling onto the sofa, but he turned his phone so I could see the headline. “It says most people feel fear, anxiety, and loneliness.”

So this was what Tom wanted to talk with me about. The banned butterflies drooped and slunk away. 

I pushed a K-cup into the in-room coffee maker. Coffee was coming with breakfast, but I didn’t want to wait that long. I looked up from the machine. “Is that the case for you?”

Tom shook his head. “That’s the thing. I feel great. I mean, I’m physically beat up, but I know what I was doing wrong with my diet and I’ll fix it. If I didn’t die from a heart attack in a Lyft car, I figure I can survive anything. And I’m definitely not lonely because I’ve wanted to spend time with you for so long and it’s finally happening.”

The butterflies swarmed. I stepped away from the coffee machine, forgetting to press the brew button.

Tom continued, speaking slowly, his eyes locked on mine. “I’ve let myself be held back for so long by other people’s rules. Now, the possibilities seem infinite and anything can evolve if we only allow it to happen.”

My hands were shaking and I stuffed them into the pockets of my sweatpants. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Kathryn, I’ve wanted to ask you out since I started at Delta, but I knew all the corporate policies prohibiting it. If you’re not interested, then I’ll leave you alone. But, if you feel the same way I do, now’s our chance!” Tom held out his open hand toward where I stood. “Three days together to see what it might be like if we had no responsibilities.”

I grabbed my phone and my room key card. “I need to go.”

No responsibilities.

As I waited for the elevator, I checked my email, my newsfeeds, the weather across our flight map, and Delta’s corporate intranet. 

No responsibilities.

On the ride down, I double-checked Delta’s stock price, then cross-referenced it with our domestic and international competitors as well as our own 52-week high and low. 

No responsibilities.

Walking through the lobby, I logged onto our vendor relations site and the SkyTeam global alliance page to ensure there had been no developments with either overnight. 

No responsibilities.

I stepped outside. It was below freezing and I only had on my lizard shirt, sweatpants, socks, and slippers. But I tapped the iPhone contact. He picked up on the first ring, of course.

“Tuvok Greenman, Legal Department, Delta Air Lines.”

“Tuvok. It’s Kathryn. I need your help.”

***

Tuvok talked to me, then to Tom, then to me again. He created a hold harmless waiver and sent it to both of us to sign electronically. I had to warm my index finger with my breath for the phone to process the touch command. I could have gone inside, but I needed fresh air. Too much of my life had been spent inside aircraft, meeting rooms, airports.

Once I studied for an MBA exam during a layover at the Philadelphia airport. I sat in a coffee shop in my flight attendant uniform. Two-inch heels, a skirt that hit above my knees, and a small scarf in the required Pan Am Neck Knot. Unofficial guidance was to unbutton the shirt to “one button lower than your comfort level.” Even my ponytail followed the rules — behind my ears and centered on the back of my head. _Isn’t that cute?_ I heard one business traveler say to another. _That stewardess thinks looking at those big books will make her smart._ I held in every acerbic response I had and focused on the supply and demand curves.

Can’t insult the customers. 

Can’t yell back at drunk Owen Paris.

Can’t be in a relationship with a direct report. 

My phone dinged: Tuvok’s email to confirm he’d received both my and Tom’s waivers to the Delta Air Lines sexual harassment policy.

I messaged Tom. _Do you think I’m crazy?_

He wrote right back. _For standing outside in the cold? Yes. For protecting your career and mine? No._

My throat ached with tears and laughter and I didn't even know what else. There was a fireplace in the lobby and I stood in front of it for a few minutes to get the feeling back into my body. I wiggled my fingers and toes. They stung as their warmth returned. 

When I got to the suite, Tom met me at the door with a tissue and a cup of coffee. The breakfast cart was pushed to the far wall. I wiped my face and Tom guided me to the sofa. 

He said he’d noticed me at the Kardashian hearings, too. Said he believed I was innocent and wanted to introduce himself, but lost his nerve. We forgot about each other and never worked in the same department at United. But when I bailed him out and then brought him to Delta, Tom said he knew he was making the choice to be near me but not with me. He said the heart attack changed his mind. 

“It’s like ... it’s like my DNA has been rewritten,” he explained, running his hand through his hair. “I feel free in a way I never have, like this new lease on life is telling me to take the chances I never would have taken before.”

That’s when he kissed me. 

***

It was a good thing we had to wait to have sex because it forced us to talk. Well, between making out — on the sofa, in my bed, in his bed, on the floor, against a wall — we talked. 

I told him how, as a little girl, I’d beg my parents to drive the hour from our house in Bloomington to the Indianapolis Airport so I could watch takeoffs and landings. 

He told me how his father started drinking after the two United Airlines planes went down in the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, and how Tom tried to keep up with his dad’s alcohol consumption in some sort of male bonding grief ritual that was no help to either of them. 

We shared our past relationships, our travels, our regrets, our points of pride. We even talked in depth about the forbidden topics of personal finances and politics — and I was gratified we agreed. 

He set a timer on his phone that alerted us to the exact minute he was medically cleared for sex. Still, we both were nervous. He was black and blue from the stent operation and his hospital IV; his chest and torso had rectangular-shaped burn marks from the defibrillator. The one-hour time change and the stress of his hospitalization had messed me up on my birth control pills, so I hurried down the hall to the condom machine feeling like a teenager on prom night.

We took it slow. 

Delightfully slow. 

Decadently slow.

Deliciously slow.

I hadn’t screamed like that in a long time. It was like … like Tom and I were the only two beings on the planet — a hot, sweaty, sticky, wet planet.

Tom said he was a little overwhelmed, and that his heart might explode from happiness.

“Don’t you dare.” I rested my hand on his chest and felt the beautiful, steady beats. “Don’t you even think about it.”

We flew back to Atlanta that evening. In a few months, we would move in together. A few months after that, we would learn Delta was the only air carrier in the Americas to earn a place in the Airline Excellence Awards listing. Soon afterward, we would get married. But, as I unpacked at home the night after our first time in that suite in Minneapolis, I called Tom right away. 

“The lizard shirts!” I cried. “I left all three of them behind in the hotel room!”


End file.
